


Dip me under and wash me over

by colliena



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Inception Bingo, Inception Trope/Kink Bingo 2016, M/M, accidental intoxication, inceptiversary, mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colliena/pseuds/colliena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweeping his gaze over Arthur’s lithe body proves to have almost hypnotizing effect on Eames – he just can’t look away [...] He’s rubbing warmth into Arthur’s body and rinses it off of dirt and road dust with dedication and concentration until he feels Arthur touching his cheek with his graceful finger; he looks up, a little startled to find Arthur watching him with a ghost of a fond smile, the outline of his dimples showing, and hears him say, slowly, “You should take a rest, Eames. You look like shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dip me under and wash me over

**Author's Note:**

> First fill for my Inception Trope/Kink Bingo - prompt: Bath time.
> 
> Many many thanks to [ Katie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia) who was wonderful and beta'd this little fic!

Dim light from a single light bulb attached dubiously to the stained ceiling starts to hurt Arthur’s eyes as soon as he leans back more comfortably in bathtub, careful not to get wet his bandaged arm. The water is filling half the tub and is gloriously hot, steaming the bathroom’s walls. How Eames managed this is a small wonder to Arthur, given the overall state of a place they’re currently crashing — mold and rusted pipes with no heater and mostly shuttered window panes.

Arthur may be fussy when it comes to the quality of decor or general standards of rooms he stays in, at least opting for commodities of the 21st century — “ _Not some medieval shithole without electricity. Where am I supposed to charge my phone and laptop, for fuck’s sake Eames?!_ ” — but when it comes to places that may give him a safe shelter he’s not choosy. Especially when he’s hurt and has been carried because he had lost too much blood to even stand straight and had no saying about his whereabouts. At the moment though, he’s content; finally starting to regain feeling in his limbs. 

He sighs when warmth spreads in his sore back. The tub isn’t long or wide enough to fully accommodate his body, but Arthur thinks it’s million times better than the hard mattress with springs sticking out of it in every direction, where he spent approximately three days, delirious. 

So, this place is a dump, but he’s grateful for it nevertheless. To Eames. He’s grateful to Eames for help, for carrying his wounded body to the safety and not abandoning him for Turant’s team to do as they please — bunch of stupid double-crossing assholes to deal with later, when Arthur recovers – but Eames would never, Arthur knows, leave him to the higher bidder. 

To anyone else this would be a surprise – given the impressions of himself Eames likes to let people believe, but Arthur saw past that a long time ago and honestly, Eames proved himself trustworthy and reliable despite his conning nature and… Arthur is jostled out of his thoughts by the creaking of the opening door and Eames entering the bathroom. He carries some jagged rags piled on his left arm and a bag of toiletries in his right and dumps all of it in the sink, his muscles rippling under the white t-shirt he’s wearing. 

The pointman can’t help a fond smile from spreading on his face while looking at Eames’ broad back. He’s visibly exhausted – sleeping on the floor beside Arthur must be very uncomfortable – but has yet to complain.

Arthur can feel his dimples make an appearance; as if sensing this, Eames looks over his shoulder and grins toothily.

“Oh good, pet, you’re awake. I would rather you cooperate with me on the next part.” Arthur can only smile some more and mumble “I live to serve”, gaining a loud snort and low chuckle from Eames. 

“I wish, darling. It’s not so easy with you though,” he answers with exaggerated sigh, already moving around the tub and finally crouching down beside it. Arthur follows him with his eyes, gazing at him from under hooded lids with, what he thinks, must be a dopey smile.

“You’re high as hell, aren’t you?” When Arthur only bursts laughing, Eames continues, amused, “I thought so. How’s your shoulder though?”

“Alright, I guess. Given the circumstances.” Arthur says, considers it for a second and again bursts out laughing, “I don’t know really!”

“I’m glad you’re in good spirits” Forger says and smiles at Arthur tiredly but sincerely and Arthur’s insides do very strange things, probably because of how many painkillers the forger forced into him lately. “I’ll live, Eames” he assures, voice more fond that he would allow himself on any different occasion.

“That’s the plan, pet.” Eames tears in half a white cloth and soaks it in the hot water, rinses and brings it to Arthur’s chest, rubbing gentle circles.

“Mmm, feels good” Arthur mutters, back already melting against the tub, feeling more and more drowsy; sleep creeping at the back of his skull. Eames expertly continues, brows furrowed with concentration; eyes following hand’s movement. He touches Arthur’s collarbones precisely maneuvering his hand to not get Arthur’s bandaged left arm wet too much – it wouldn’t do to cause him more pain by changing them too often; not to mention that Eames has used up their whole supply of clean bondages already, and he’s not keen on the idea of wrapping Arthur’s wounded shoulder in the dirty sheets he found around this shithole. 

He has to find a different place for them to hide, and better it be soon; they’ve spent four days here already while Arthur was too weak to walk and was mostly unconscious, only drinking water when prompted. God, Eames hated it, hated looking at him so hurt and vulnerable and hated that someone managed to do this to him – bloody arseholes, if you ask Eames, he already knows how he’ll take his sweet revenge on them. 

Sweeping his gaze over Arthur’s lithe body proves to have almost hypnotizing effect on Eames – he just can’t look away, although he admits he would prefer to ogle and touch him to his heart’s content in some other circumstances – involving much more consciousness and voluntary consent, following delicious food and some good old grape juice to start with. He’s rubbing warmth into Arthur’s body and rinses it off of dirt and road dust with dedication and concentration until he feels Arthur touching his cheek with his graceful finger; he looks up, a little startled to find Arthur watching him with a ghost of a fond smile, the outline of his dimples showing, and hears him say, slowly, “You should take a rest, Eames. You look like shit.”

“I will, pet. Promise.” Eames hums. Arthur’s hand is still touching his face and Eames can’t help himself but tilt his head a little placing a kiss to the inside of his palm and then burrowing his face in it, nuzzling.

“Also, you should shave,” Arthur chuckled, playfully smacking Eames’s cheek, eliciting a groan of disgust from the forger. 

“Piss off,” and after a bit he adds, leering, “Such a stick in the mud,” causing Arthur to roll his eyes and tilt his head back, still smiling. The sight in front of Eames right now takes his breath away; Arthur’s long exposed neck with his Adam’s apple bobbing, sharp collarbones, muscled, lightly haired chest wet and glinting in dim light of the bathroom, dark pink nipples, water pooling around his ribcage, slim hips disappearing under the water, dark pubic curls a barely visible mirage, knobby knees bent and sticking out of the water – he’s a sight. 

Eames has seen glimpses of naked Arthur, sure, but never had the chance to really look; fast frenzied fucks here and there after jobs, or occasionally during long and boring ones, don’t count; how much you can see when most of your clothes stay on - to Eames’s despair – but needs must; he’ll take those than nothing at all, but now he doesn’t think he’ll recover from the sight. In fact, he already feels greedy and wants to see more, better, closer, to see Arthur in the morning tangled in the rumpled sheets, under the shower, sprawled under him flushed and panting, over him arched and thrusting on his cock, he wants to touch every inch of Arthur, to kiss and lick and mark, to inhale his scent and musk to be able to pick him up from a crowd by his smell alone. He needs to feel Arthur’s body in his, touching, exploring, moving, owning. He wants Arthur to surround him, to hold him and never let go, to be enveloped by him, to have his breath stolen by Arthur’s lips. 

Say what you will, but what Eames really wants is to see Arthur happy and at ease, to make him happy and doesn’t give a single fuck of how much selfish this is. Eames wants to be the reason for Arthur’s happiness. He wants, he wants and wants. Wanted for so many years now. Wanted  
everything, anything he could have he would take, and he still wants more, oh God he wants…

“Eames…” Arthur quietly prompts. Immediately Eames is jostled from his thoughts and realizes he’s squeezing Arthur’s calf with his right hand and the other resting possessively over his stomach.

“Yes? Oh, sorry.”

Arthur clears his throat and says, “Water’s getting cold.”

“Oh, right. Let’s take you out of it then, shall we?” Arthur knows Eames tries for casual, but somehow isn’t capable of disguising his sheepishness. He extends his arm for Arthur to hold onto while helping him to languidly stand up, wrapping him in a makeshift towel. Arthur sees how in an attempt to be polite he’s averting his eyes, although Arthur doesn’t want him to; he wants Eames’ gaze on him, burning and penetrating, like he would like to see through him, look into what’s beneath Arthur’s skin. He’s reluctant to admit it even to himself, but he loves to be the focus of the forger’s attention, the way everything seems to disappear for Eames when they talk alone. It’s frustrating how every time he decides to get closer to the forger, something always gets in the way – either a job or the aftermath of a job – and enough is enough. He has made the decision to finally respond to the forger’s advances some time ago and now, considering recent events – almost dying, again, and Eames’ support, also again – he is more than aware of the time passing them by, and why waste even more than they already did when tomorrow you can be dead? 

A lot of people like to throw this shitty phrase left and right, _carpe diem_ philosophy and such, but not Arthur; he knows the true meaning of the words and how much they mean – dreamshare business is all about looking death in the eye and only a fool would ignore it; those who did are already non among living. It’s a matter of survival skills, sense of self-preservation and limited, if any at all, trust in co-workers and even clients. Arthur is a virtuoso of dreamshare – time-consuming and demanding symphony.

His personal life isn’t so great because of it; he can’t have a pet, although we would love to, just like he would like to see his family more and not be so secretive about it; not to mention his love life. Arthur hasn’t been in a relationship since… he doesn’t remember (oh, God, it’s bad, so bad), though his sex life greatly improved since he hooked up with Eames almost 4 years ago (again – oh, God, has it really been that long?) and it’s been only Eames for him for 3 years now, so this must mean something, right? It probably does, Arthur just has to do something about it already, not let this drag for another 3 years, for fuck’s sake. 

Arthur sits on the edge of the tub and pats his body awkwardly in an attempt to dry himself with his good hand while Eames is busy putting away their toiletries. As soon as Eames is done Arthur feels gentle touch on his knee; Eames takes over the drying, murmuring hushed “There, pet, before you’ll chill too much,” and making efficient moves starting with Arthur’s calves, going up over his thighs, dragging the cloth up to his abdomen and back, finishing with his neck and ears making Arthur laugh.

“Geez, Eames, you’re more coddling than my grandma.” The fact that Eames doesn’t have any sharp or dirty remark to this, only smiling faintly, is the sign of how knackered he is.

Arthur has the sudden urge to hug him. “Maybe, after we’re done with all of this mess you would like to go on a date with me?” Arthur blurts, blushing, immediately ducking his head and clearing his throat to cover his nervousness when Eames looks up at him agape, eyes wide, surprised. Silence stretches uncomfortably for, what feels like to Arthur, hours while Eames is staring at him, gaze searching and curious, like he wants to take Arthur to pieces and peek at what’s he’s made of (and oddly, Arthur likes this thought a lot, actually). Eames probably thinks that the pointman is still too intoxicated to be taken seriously, so Arthur adds more firmly, “I would very much like that.” 

The forgers’ face breaks into wild grin and Arthur knows that the message was delivered, Eames’ next words the final confirmation – “I would very much like that too, darling.” Arthur’s responding smile is blinding.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed. Any feedback is a good feedback.


End file.
